


Thou And I Are Too Wise

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cosplay, F/M, Fluff, Slice of Life, dressing up, historical wanderings, musings on the TARDIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could never just tell her straighforwardly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay,” she says aloud to the empty dressing room, “Show me what you got.”

She opens the wardrobe doors with a flourish, to reveal the TARDIS’s selection of costumes and a strong smell of camphor. Something cut long in royal blue rayon is on the first hanger. Pretty enough, but the outfit could be from her personal wardrobe, defeating the object of coming in here to play dress-up. She replaces it carefully and reaches inside for another choice.

 _This_ dress is satin, bottle green and butterfly sleeved, cool under her fingers. She checks the length against her body; floor skimming but not so long she’ll fall over. _Perfect_. Crossing to the dressing table she finds a selection of art-deco emerald jewellery scattered on the top. Magazine cuttings of elegantly curled up-dos are pinned around the mirror. She wonders idly where they come from; if the TARDIS has a huge scrapbook stored somewhere or if they are merely the collections of companions long gone. 

She sweeps into the console room like Greta Garbo when she’s finally dressed. Her grand entrance goes unnoticed by the Doctor, typically engrossed in the console. He has merely added a fedora to his outfit in deference to their intended destination.

She coughs. “Will I do?”

He turns, removing his hat, every inch the considerate gentleman he consistently fails to be. “Very good, Miss Oswald.” He extends a bony elbow. “Shall we?”

They leave the TARDIS for the evening streets of the city. Her breath catches for a second as she takes in the boxy skyline, a stream of seemingly identical vehicles caught somewhere between handsome cab and car passing by. Stepping out onto the pages of history is something that will never, ever get old.

“Chicago, nineteen-thirty,” he says, “The boom years are over, the factories are closing, but the soup kitchens are busy.”

“Are we not a bit overdressed, then?” She suddenly feels crass in her film star finery.

“Not where we’re going. There’s one line of work that continued to pay throughout the Depression.”

“And what’s that?”

He brings them to a halt in front of a small door, set slightly back from the street. “Crime, of course.”

He raps smartly on the peeling paintwork and precisely nothing happens. She feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth as his impressive moment falls flat. He coughs, a little theatrically, and tries again.

This time the door opens, to reveal a burly man in an ill-fitting suit. “Can I help you?” His tone suggests this is unlikely.

“Er, we’re…here to see a man about a dog,” says the Doctor, subtle as a brick. “My business card.” He hands over the psychic paper.

The doorman grunts as he reads, his frown easing. “Okay then. You can come in.”

She edges past, following the Doctor down the gloomy hallway and wondering exactly what kind of trouble he has planned. “Doctor?”

“Ssshh.” He cocks his head, listening to something she cannot hear, and smiles. She suddenly wishes she had thought to wear running shoes. Nothing good ever follows that grin. “This way.”

He opens the door to his right, revealing a similarly dark corridor, only now she can hear the sound of many overlapping voices. Realisation dawns. “Is this a speakeasy?” she whispers.

He opens the final door in reply, and she steps inside the hidden barroom. The flappers that once graced the stage are long gone; in their place a trumpet player, mid riff.  Cigarette smoke coils in the air above packed out tables. The wood-panelled bar is thronged with people.

“I’ll get us some drinks,” he says, above the hubbub of the crowd. She gazes in open mouthed astonishment. “You mingle. And keep your ears open.”

She catches his arm. “For what? You said ‘go and pick an outfit from the TARDIS wardrobe and meet me here in fifteen minutes.’ You didn’t say what for.”

He frowns. “Well, you were gone for at least _forty_ minutes so I had to revise the plan.”

“Revise the part of the plan where you tell me the plan?”

“Right, okay, fine.” He leans in to keep his words private. “The TARDIS picked up some unusual energy discharge signatures from near here. Probably alien.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, I checked the local newspaper reports, but the city is in thrall to the mob. It’s not surprising the details of any suspicious murders are being kept on the down low, is it?”

“Murders? Doctor! It’s never secret alien… charity shops or something nice, is it?”

He gives her the look he reserves for when he finds her especially stupid. “What, you think they might have come here to start a soup kitchen? Using ion emissions to do the cooking?”

“No,” she replies, grumpily, “I’m fully aware it will be something nasty and probably dangerous.”

“Good. Now, you go find us a table and I’ll go get us some drinks.”

* * *

“You’re with him aren’t you? The older guy with the accent.”

She turns to smile at the speaker, a woman perhaps a little younger than she is, also waiting at the bar. 

“Yeah, we’re here together,” she replies, “I’m Clara.”

The stranger pulls her fur coat a little tighter around her shoulders. “You could do much better than him, you know.”

“Not if I searched all of time and space,” Clara replies softly, in place of the question she meant to ask. She clamps her lips together. The hooch here is strong, for sure, but she’s a long way from drunk enough to start spilling secrets to strangers.

The girl shakes her head in response. “You got it bad. But take it from me: love like that don’t last in this business.”

“What business is that?”

“Every crooked kind there is.” Now it’s the girl’s turn to look perturbed, as if she’s said more than she intended.

“Tell me,” Clara says, needing to confirm her burgeoning suspicion, “What do you think of my dress?”

“Great colour, shame the style don’t work so good on a broad as short as you are.” The girl clamps her hands over her mouth, blushing. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I- I didn’t want…”

 _It’s ok_ , Clara wants to say, but she suspects opening her mouth will let something far more acerbic loose into the room. She leaves the girl with an apologetic grimace instead, and crosses to where the Doctor is losing badly at cards.

“Clara! I wondered where you’d got to. These are my new friends Razor and Johno.” He indicates the two men sat opposite, who look anything but friendly.

“Charmed,” she lies, cringing a little inside as they leer at her. “Doctor, would you come to the bar? I just… erm, got so confused with the dollars, you see...”

“Ah, it’s easily done,” he says, and she really _really_ hopes he’s playing along rather than believing her pathetic lie. “Why don’t I come and help you?” He stands, nodding to his companions, and lets her walk him over to the bar.

“Have you found out who the alien is yet?” she whispers.

“No,” he replies, “I’m beginning to think it was a faulty readout on the TARDIS, to be honest.” 

“I’m not so sure.”

“Really, what have you found?”

“Oh… it’s more what I’ve heard.” They are standing at the bar now and she opens her mouth to ask the same question about her outfit. The truth field, however, strips away all subtlety. “Doctor, do you think I look pretty?”

She feels the heat rise into her face as he stares at her in surprise.

“I always think you look beautiful.” The expression on his face suggests this was no more what he planned to say than she. He blinks owlishly in confusion, putting the pieces together. “...A truth field? Aaaah. Pretty clever putting it behind the bar. Patrons will put the loose lips down to the moonshine. So, who owns the bar?”

“He’s over by the stage.” She points to the landlord, a giant of a man playing poker with some of the musicians from earlier in the evening. “Apparently he’s called Big Jim Stink. Been running this place about six months. Or so Harry the saxophonist told me.”

“Big Jim Stink?” He looks incredulous.

“Truth field, remember? I’m not making this up. Harry said it’s because he wears too much cologne but I think that was a joke from the way the others were laughing… What? What do you know?”

For the Doctor has started to laugh too. “Are you not thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Almost certainly not.”

“A big man with a flatulence problem, running a bar in gangland Chicago with its own truth field?” He shakes his head at her continued blank look. “He’s Slitheen.”

 “Oh!” She’s heard his stories about the notorious crime family from Raxacoricofallapatorius, but never seen a Slitheen in the flesh before. Her stomach lollops queasily at her poor choice of wording. “Then is that… is he wearing…?”

“A skin suit, yes.”

She swallows the rising bile. “So, what do we do?”

“I’d say we start by looking for the generator powering that truth field.”

* * *

Gunfire is always considerably louder in person than it ever sounded on television.

“Doctor, are you nearly done?” she hisses.

Men outside the doors are shouting; she can hear them rushing past down the corridor. Another rattle of gunshots makes her flinch.

“I’ll be honest…”

“Mmm, because you have to be, until you get the truth field disabled.”

“Well, yes. Honestly, I have no idea. It could take me three minutes or three hours.”

He is lying on his back, hands in the guts of an alien generator cunningly built into the bottom of a grand piano. She is crouched beside him; always frustrated in situations such as this where the most use she can be is handing him a spanner.

“We don’t have three hours.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I’m aware that you’re aware of that,” she counters, “What I’m less sure about is what you plan to do about us not getting shot.”

“Same thing I always do,” he says, sounding strained as he tugs at a particularly recalcitrant piece of wiring. “Hope for the best.”

She sighs. “I always suspected as much. Do you need help?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to admit it to you,” he says, and scowls.

She shuffles under the piano next to him. “The blue wires, yes?”

“Yes. Quietly. On three. One, two, _three_!”

Their combined strength is enough and the wires are pulled loose. They are immediately plunged into darkness. The yelling outside redoubles.

“Did you mean for that to happen?” she whispers.

“Yes,” he says.

“…That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Well, the important fact to take away at this point is that the truth field is no longer in operation.”

“And neither are the lights.”

“Inconsequential side effect.”

She shakes her head, pointlessly, in the dark. “Maybe for you, mister superior species. I’m sure you’ve got… special magic eyes or something. But I can’t see a thing.”

“Special magic eyes?” he repeats, sounding incredulous, “Why would I have _special_ -?”

He is cut off by the creak of the door opening. She reacts instinctively, reaching for where she remembers his mouth is to hush him. Apparently he has the same idea; she almost squeaks as his fingers cover her lips.

There is a long moment in the dark where neither of them dare to move. Awkwardness at the ridiculousness of their position battles fear, over who or what is now moving around the room. She tries to keep her mouth perfectly still under his hand, to not think about the prickle of his stubble against her palm.

A _click_ , and light returns; flat white and artificial. Not the yellowish colour of the bulbs of nineteen-thirty, but something altogether more modern. A beam of torchlight tracks towards them across the floor.

He releases her mouth in the same instant she does, pushing urgently on her shoulder. She understands his intent, sliding further under the belly of the piano and out towards the other side. Patent shoes click across the tiles towards their former hiding place. 

She rolls to her feet, keeping low, as the bearer of the torch bends to see what has happened to the generator. Even as a silhouette, the scale of the man is such she is certain of his identity. He swears, standing up, broken wires in his hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Big Jim Stink.

“Unfortunately not,” says the Doctor, rising from his new hiding place behind a convenient chaise longue. His eyes narrow like a cat’s as Big Jim trains torchlight on him. In his hand the sonic screwdriver casts its own greenish glow. She prays the big mobster doesn’t open fire on the intruder.

“Worse luck,” Jim replies instead, dropping the torchlight out of eye line at least, “The Doctor. How deeply unpleasant it is to see you.”

“The displeasure’s all mine. You didn’t really think ion emissions were going to go unnoticed now, did you?”

“I certainly hoped they might. I crashed here, never thinking I’d want to stay. But the people in this town, Doctor?” Jim shakes his head in admiration, “They’ve got stuff going on at scales syndicates back home can only _dream_ of.”

She edges round the penumbra of a large cabinet, trying to get behind the big gangster as they spar.

“You don’t belong in this time and place.”

“No, no; you see, that’s where you’re wrong. I fit in better here than I ever did on Raxacoricofallapatorius. Don’t give me that ‘delicate balance of the forces of history’ rubbish. This place I was _made_ for. They saw my skills and they invited me in. Now doesn’t that give me as much a right to stay here and play out my part as any human mobster?”

The Doctor’s lip curls slightly. “And that person you’re wearing now. Did he _invite_ you in?”

Jim has the decency at least to look chagrined. “Okay, you got me there Doctor, I’ll admit. But please, consider my proposal at least.”

“I have.”

Jim shakes his head again. “And, uh, just how did you imagine this little scenario between us playing out? You tell me I’ve been a bad monster and I say ‘It’s a fair cop, guv,’ and go back to face the music at home?” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small pistol from his vest pocket. “’Cos that’s not how I picture this going down.”

Sensing this might be her cue, she firms her grip on an ornamental desk lamp and swings with all her might. It makes an unpleasant crunching noise as it smashes into the back of Jim’s head, and he collapses forwards, dropping the light and his gun.

The torch rolls across the floor, coming to a rest under the Doctor’s outstretched foot. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, picking it up.

“Well, next time I’ll just watch you get shot, then,” she snaps, still brandishing the lamp. She knows all too well that head injuries can be fatal. “Is he…?”

He flicks the screwdriver. “Just unconscious, apparently.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she says, finally putting down the weapon.

“Yes. Not sure how we’re going to carry him back to the TARDIS though.”

She considers the problem. “We’re not,” she concludes, “Have to re-materialise here and drag him inside.”

“Well, come on then,” he says, after a moment’s consideration. “We’d better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

She does not accompany him out of the doors when they reach Raxacoricofallapatorius, leaving him to drag the big Slitheen to justice himself. _I’m not sulking_ , she tells herself, as she sits instead in at the dressing table in the TARDIS wardrobe, unpinning her curls. The pout her face wears in the mirror might suggest otherwise. The beautiful green dress is returned to the wardrobe, replaced by a dressing gown. She wonders if she’ll ever see it again.

“Are you cross with me?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice, almost jabbing herself with a hairpin. “Doctor!” She was expecting to have to go and rescue him from whatever disaster his materialisation with an unconscious criminal caused. “I’m not dressed.”

He frowns. “Then what’s that you’re wearing?”

“It’s a dressing gown.”

He rolls his eyes, coming to lean against the dressing table and play with the discarded pins. “Clothes for wearing while you pick clothes to wear. Huh. Humans.”

She pulls the pins out of his hands primly. “It’s a dressing gown I found in _your_ wardrobe, Doctor.”

“So?”

“So, some incarnation of you must have enjoyed them enough to collect.” She swallows, trying not to think about whether this enjoyment was based on personal experience or mere observation.  

His scowl deepens. “ _I_ don’t waste time picking up all these pieces of frippery. The TARDIS does it.”

“Why?”

He reflects on the question, playing with a blusher brush now instead. She lets this slide, considering him less dangerous with a powder-puff than a pin. “Because it helps, perhaps, with camouflage? Or maybe she just enjoys it.”

She smiles at the thought of that, just a little. The idea of the TARDIS picking clothes for his companions like a child might choose outfits for a doll. Easy to forget his ship is almost as much symbiont with him as she is vessel.

“Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”

The final curl is released, hair returning to its usual bob. She reaches for a hairbrush to smooth away the residual kinks. “What question?”

“Are you cross with me?”

“I was, a bit,” she admits, as she brushes out her hair.

“Why?” He looks as if he may well be preparing his own annoyance in retaliation.

“Because you were cross with me,” she replies, hoping to head off a toxic crossfire of retaliatory irritation before it begins.

“I didn’t want you to hit him. It’s too dangerous.”

 _To my safety or my soul?_ she wants to ask, glad that these days he considers either. “Well, what did you want me to do?” she says instead.

“I don’t know. Wait until I thought of something cleverer.”

She snorts. “I didn’t want to hit him either. But I thought he was going to shoot you.”

“Oh.” He twirls the brush, unable to find a better reply.

“I should, um,” she says, mostly to break the increasingly awkward silence, “…Probably be getting back. Marking.”

“Oh right. Yes. Marking. Of course.”

“I’ll see you soon?”

“I should think so.”

“Good.”

* * *

He manages forty-eight hours, at least from her perspective. She is performing the awkward ceremony of unlocking the front door to her flat whilst laden with shopping bags, when he opens it from the inside.

“Glad you’re back,” he says, taking a proffered bag, “I’ve finished recalibrating your washing machine radio.”

She puts down the shopping on the kitchen counter, extracting the milk to put away. “I don’t have a washing machine radio.” The contents of her fridge have been re-organised too, although she isn’t quite sure under what criteria. Avocadoes have replaced the eggs normally stored in the door compartment.

“Oh. Well, you do now.”

She smiles in spite of herself, moving to fill the kettle. “Why would I need two, Doctor?”

“I don’t know. You’ve got three mirrors, and a room just for not being awake in. I can’t be held accountable for your human eccentricities.”

“Says the man who just invented the washing machine radio,” she chuckles. “I haven’t eaten yet, are you hungry?”

He inspects the contents of her shopping bags and makes a face. “Not for anything in there.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, you’d better take me out for dinner then.”

“I’ve something better planned,” he replies, raising a hand to stop her protests before she can give them voice. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

“Hmm.” She probably will, but not for whatever reason he thinks.

“Come on, come on,” he says, making shooing motions with his hands. “TARDIS.”

“Tea,” she answers firmly. “It’s been a long day for me. Then TARDIS.” He grudgingly allows her this, taking a hot cup for himself, to which he adds a ludicrous amount of sugar. “So, tell me. Do I need to wear my running shoes?”

“The TARDIS will provide,” he says gravely, under the mistaken impression it makes him appear mysterious.

She can’t quite supress her excited grin in response.

* * *

Her eyes widen as she takes in the costume the TARDIS has selected for her. “Historic adventure, is it?”

There are layers of patterned damasks, curling designs picked out in golden thread. The skirt comes with its own scaffolding. The bodice is a snug triangle, erupting into puffed sleeves that trail to points. Most eye catching is the ruff, less a fine collar than it is frame for her face; angular, and taller than her head.

“I’m not going to spoil the surprise. Hurry up and get dressed,” he answers, making for the far end of the wardrobe.

“Hey, where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re getting dressed up too?” He does not deign to reply, leaving her frowning in front of the astonishing dress.  She shakes her head. “Wherever we’re going, I bet the women that wear these things have people to help them get in.”

She heaves the dress off the stand with some difficulty, and drags it behind a modesty screen; lest the Doctor return before she has figured out quite how to tie herself into the corsetry. Twenty minutes later she emerges.

“Doctor?”

There is no reply. She surreptitiously tugs at the neckline, not entirely convinced she has managed to lace everything up correctly. _Of course, he would invent a washing machine radio, but a future technology for tying awkward knots? No chance._ She pads in silk slippers towards the console room.

“Doctor, are you-?” The words die in her throat as he steps out from behind the rotor. She stares in open mouthed astonishment for a full five seconds before catching herself, and closing her mouth.

“What do you think?” he says, swishing his cape.

He is dressed in leather. A lot of leather. Patterned leather jerkin, and knee high leather boots. His doublet is black velvet; his cape the sort of thing Vampire enthusiasts probably dream of owning. There is a rapier at his waist. He looks like he may buckle some swash at any moment.

“What happened to your spoon?” she asks, indicating his sword.

“Ah,” he replies, “I’m afraid where we’re going, I need to be a little more formal.”

“Where _are_ we going? To captain the Jolly Roger?”

“Hah, no, I’m not a buccaneer. You’re in the right sort of time period though.” He turns and pulls the handle that sends the TARDIS spinning into the Vortex.  She lands with her customary thump moments later. He extends his hand. “My lady?”

She suspects he is rather enjoying this. Still suspicious, she places her finger over his. “Lead on…” There’s no way she’s calling him ‘my lord’, not in this life or the next. She hesitates, and then continues: “…Lord of Time.” He grins at her phrasing, and they step out onto the streets of a busy Renaissance city.

She is glad of his hand, as they are immediately swept up in a crowd of people. She can smell the river, and after a moment realises the street they are moving down is actually a wide bridge. Tall houses, fronted with black and white woodwork, are built on top of brickwork arches which span the mighty waterway. She cranes her neck, looking for the dome of St Paul’s to confirm her suspicion that they are indeed crossing the Thames. In its place is merely a broken spire. The cathedral awaits a Great Fire yet to burn; restoration to glory by Wren is still a future unwritten.

Any English teacher worth her salt now has enough clues to know where he has bought her. They are crossing to the south bank of the Thames, in the early seventeenth century. “Doctor, are we going to see Shakespeare?”

His grin widens. “We are going to the theatre, yes.”

She’s asked before, of course, if they can go and see one of his plays on opening night. The Doctor has always been strangely reticent about crossing into the Bard’s timeline, however, claiming to have met the man previously and not wanting to cause a potential paradox. Privately, she has always assumed this avoidance of Elizabethan England has a lot more to do with avoiding his wrathful ex-wife.

“Oh, my God,” she murmurs, as they reach the end of the bridge and the Globe comes into view. She’s lead school trips to the modern reconstruction, of course, but seeing it nestled amongst its contemporaries rather than framed by glass and concrete is a special thrill of its own.

She expects him to lead her into the pit, to stand with the penny-paying groundlings. Instead they sweep up the stairs, to the highest balcony, where others are dressed in similar finery. He nudges her elbow. “The Winter Queen,” he murmurs, indicating a tall blonde girl with a nod of his head.

“What’s going to happen to her?” she asks.

“Well, she’s going to marry the short guy behind her,” he says, “And then they move to Heidelberg-”

“No,” she says, “I don’t mean her biography, I mean right now. What’s going to happen to her _here_?”

“I imagine she’s going to enjoy a rather good play,” he replies, nonplussed.

“You mean there’s no imminent alien invasion? No assassination plot we’re here to foil?”

“None that I’m aware of,” he confesses, “Though it would certainly make for an entertaining afternoon…”

“Then why are _we_ here, Doctor?”

He blinks. “I thought you’d like it.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, for once at a loss for anything to say. _Perhaps I hit my head very hard,_ she thinks. Although why the Doctor of her dreams is dressed liked some sort of leather fetishist’s fantasy she’s at a loss to explain.

A hush falls on the crowd before she finds her voice; the actors have entered the stage. “I learn in this letter,” says the tallest of the three, “That Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.”

She smiles. “You were right,” she whispers, moving to the edge of the balcony so she can see them properly.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The afternoon light is already beginning to fade, candles now lit around the theatre to cast a glow over the unfolding drama. Uneasily she tries to recall when the _Globe_ first burned to the ground; it would be so typical of the Doctor to bring her here on the day of conflagration.

The crowd gasps and murmurs around her, as fair Hero is abused on her wedding day. If only her students could see the passion of this reaction; the heckles and jeers at the Princes in their folly! They’d never call Shakespeare boring again.

She glances at the Princess Elizabeth; the girl’s hand is covering her mouth in horror. _Hard for a noblewoman about to be wed to watch this_ , she thinks; for the young royal could just as easily be undone. The atmosphere is like a festival; bodies pressed together even here in the Gods, united in their emotional response to the spectacle on stage before them. Together they bear the grief of a wrongly accused woman, the apoplexy of her father. The plan to save Hero is hatched, and most of the troupe leave the stage. Only Benedick and Beatrice remain.

Benedick is clearly the leading actor of the company; a tall man, hair flecked silver, not altogether dissimilar to the Doctor. The young boy playing Beatrice is to her mind the star, however. His dress fits his broad shoulders poorly, padded bosom lumpy, but he inhabits the role of witty heroine so completely she has long ceased to notice. 

“Lady Beatrice have you wept all this while?” asks silvered Benedick, tenderly wiping tears from his co-star’s face. Pin-drop silence falls, several hundred people holding their breath as the reluctant lovers confess their feelings. _Bloody hell_ , she thinks: she’s never seen a version of _Much Ado_ quite like this. Sometimes the Doctor really _does_ bring her wonders.

The couple embrace and a soft sigh rises from the crowd. “Come,” says Benedick, “Bid me do anything for thee.”

“Kill Claudio,” demands Beatrice; all her sorrows turned to vengeance. Clara hears the gasp of the audience, as the back of the Doctor’s fingers brush lightly against hers.

 _“You're going to help me?” she asks, almost crying on the doorstep of the TARDIS, unable to make sense of what he is saying. She flinches as his anger erupts; at the cold fury on his face. And then she asks the question:_ why?

_“Do you think that I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”_

She gulps, as the past-present rushes back. On stage Benedick cries: “By this hand, I love thee!”

“Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it,” spits Beatrice, fighting to escape his grip. They struggle together, as Benedick makes up his mind; as Clara fights to catch her breath. A great weight has settled on her chest.

“Enough!” shouts Benedick. “I am engaged.”

She stares at the Doctor, seemingly entirely engrossed in the unfolding drama below. She has no idea if what has just passed between them was planned or not; if he was merely drawing the parallel in the privacy of his own head, or deliberately brushed her fingers to show her his thoughts on the matter. The audience erupts into applause around them as the lovers take their exit; their roar matching the rush of blood in her ears.

Afterwards, the merry crowd spills out into the fair surrounding the theatre; roaring bonfires fighting back against the chill of the January evening. Roast meats and pastries are on offer to tempt the appetite, as tumblers, jugglers and pick-pockets jostle past in a giddy whirl.

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking her hand to lead her down the river path. “You’re very quiet.”

“Yeah,” she lies, still shaken to her core, “Just, you know, processing. It was very good.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” His fingers are still folded around hers, swinging her hand gently back and forth in his good mood. “It’s always been one of my favourites.”

“I’ll bet,” she says, trying to cast off the heaviness still weighing on her heart. “You’re a regular Benedick, after all.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Grumpy,” she says, starting to grin, “Full of his own self-importance? Not the most… self-aware of heroes, shall we say?”

He draws back from her a little, taking in her teasing smile, and raising an impressive eyebrow. “Why, my dear Lady Disdain!” he returns, with a mock bow.

 _Funny_ , she adds to herself, as they continue to walk down the South Bank _. Brave. Loyal._ He fetches her a pie, taking the edge off the gnawing hunger of several missed meals, as he lists places they could go to dinner proper throughout the Universe.

* * *

She lets him pick, and one short hop in the TARDIS later they are predictably somewhere she could never have imagined. They land in lush gardens, walking past a long queue of people winding towards the doors of a shining metal structure. They are still wearing their seventeenth century finery. She doesn’t feel out of place, given the astonishing costumes of the queueing patrons. They draw stares nonetheless, but only because they are blithely ignoring the line. She hopes he has a solution for this.

Holding the entryway is pretty, curvaceous woman; beautiful to Clara’s eyes despite an unconventional extra pair of arms and bright lavender skin.

“Hello Oakasia,” says the Doctor as they approach.

“Welcome friend,” she replies, looking intrigued. “Have you changed your form? I didn’t think we had met before.”

“I have,” he says, “Several times since last we spoke. But I remain the Doctor nonetheless.”

She embraces the Time Lord, planting a lingering kiss on his cheek as they break apart. Something about his stiff reaction clearly gives him away, and she is smiling now. “I confirm your identity,” she says, pressing a button on the lectern before her. The door behind her opens, to audible groans from the queuing masses. “Please; you and your companion may go right ahead.”

“What did you do?” she asks, immediately suspicious, as the door swishes shut behind them. They are standing in a corridor panelled with ornate glass. The lights change subtly in colour as they move, through cool hues of blue and green.

“Oh, I sorted out a problem for them a long time ago,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hands.

“What sort of problem?” she asks, still mistrustful.

“The restaurant was built on top of an unstable wormhole,” he says, “Lovely food, but patrons were complaining about unfortunate instances of being sucked into deep space and dumped a thousand light years from home. It was bad for business.”

“And you _definitely_ fixed it?” she checks, mentally preparing herself for the same fate.

He sighs. “Yes, I did. Which is why _I_ have a standing reservation.”

They step into the atrium at the end of the corridor where another pink lady greets them warmly. “Doctor, if you will step to the left?” she says. “Your companion can come with me.”

Clara looks askance. “It’s okay,” he reassures, “I’ll see you in a minute.” He disappears through the wooden door to the left without as much as a backward glance.

Following his example, she steps through the other door, which the lavender woman is now holding open for her. _It’s a cloakroom_ , she realises; hanger after hanger of lavish costumes behind a counter.

“Welcome, friend,” says her guide, “I am Mayplex.”

“Clara Oswald,” she replies, a shade awkward. “Do I need to get changed?”

“Don’t worry,” says Mayplex, pressing a button behind the counter. Clara flinches slightly at a sudden prickle of cold; her fabulous dress is now on its own hangar, out of reach. In its place is a grey jumpsuit; soft and silver. Very space age, but something of a come-down from her previous outfit. “It won’t stay so plain,” reassures Mayplex.

“Thanks,” she says, for want of something better to say.

“Through the door, if you please. The Doctor will be waiting.” She points with both her right arms to the exit on the other side of the changing room. Feeling more than little apprehensive, Clara steps through.

To her surprise he is indeed waiting for her, similar attired in a grey jumpsuit of his own. Compared to the beautiful hallway this room is surprisingly plain; not much larger than the living room of her flat. Gunmetal walls appear to have been simply bolted together. The only furniture is a short plinth, on which two small white discs have been placed.

“What is this place, Doctor?”

“Anything and everything,” he replies, picking up one of the white disks. She takes the second. It is a powdery pill, like a giant aspirin.

“Is this dinner?” she asks.

“Technically, yes,” he replies, “All the calories and nutrients your body needs in convenient pill form.”

“And _this_ is what four hundred people are queuing outside for?”

“Yes.”                   

She starts to grin. There has to be something more to this. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“This room, this pill, can become anything you can imagine and more. We take the pill and eat the best dinner of your life. Or my life. Or we can create something new together.”

She holds up a hand. “Wait. So, it can, what? Dump us into a memory of an amazing meal?”

“Aspects of it, certainly. Taste and smell, the feelings it evoked. The place where you ate. Not the other people though. It’s just you and me.”

He sounds almost apologetic. Perhaps he thinks she might use this gift to try and conjure one last date with Danny out of the ether. Doesn’t realise that his ghost is laid to rest. Danny Pink has his five minutes, and always will, but the rest of her time is her own to spend.

“How do we create something new?” she asks, and his resulting smile makes her heart skip a beat.

“Take the pill at the same time, clear your mind, and see what happens.”

“Can it… go wrong? Create something bad?”

“Certainly,” he says, his grin widening. “That’s the risk of experimental cookery.”

She laughs, torn between wanting to know what the best meal of his life was, and seeing what their combined brains can come up with. She is about to ask which he would prefer, but realises she already knows the answer.

“Something new?” she confirms.

“On three?”

“Uh-huh.”

The pill is less chalky than she thought it might be, but still an effort to choke down. She swallows the last crumb, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, trying to keep her mind blank. She jumps as his fingers find hers, knitting their hands together.

She _feels_ the change in the room, a subtle shift in the temperature and humidity prickling on the back of her neck. She opens her eyes.

They are standing at the head of a huge glacial valley, wide bottomed and green with summer growth. The scale of it is beyond any she has seen on Earth, stretching away to the horizon. A huge moon hangs in the blue sky, close enough to be visible even in daylight. The warmth of the sun on her skin and the fresh breath of air, however, are a direct import from a walk in the Pennines with her parents. A memory of a summer holiday that, once upon a time, felt like it might never end.

He is still standing with his eyes screwed shut, the breeze lifting curls of his silver hair. Seized with a sudden boldness she stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s beautiful,” she says, as he jumps with surprise at the chaste brush of her lips, “Thank you.”

He blinks at the hanging moon, clearly caught between overwhelming grief and unspeakable happiness. She assumes the valley is from Gallifrey; from before the war. He points. “That way.” His voice is unusually gruff.

They walk a winding path up the hill at the valley head, his hand still held in hers. She is sure they have walked the length of the room already, but some trickery seems to keep them clear of walls she can hardly believe still exist. He seems to know where they are going, and she is content to let him lead for once.

He makes a noise of surprise when they come to the end of the pathway. A large corrie lake sits in the rock bowl at the top of the mountain, waters crystal clear and inviting in the hot sun. A huge trestle table is bent under the weight a sumptuous buffet, next to two sun-loungers.

She is sure she started this walk in a space-age jumpsuit, but at some point in their meander up the hill her outfit has transmuted into a loose tee shirt and shorts, hastily thrown over a bikini. There are sunglasses on her head that she gratefully pulls down onto her face. She sheds her sandals when they reach the sun loungers, running to the waters to dip her toes. It is beautifully warm, not the glacier chill she was expecting at all. Swimming, however, will have to wait. She is unspeakably hungry.

Some of the buffet she recognises; potted shrimps a childhood favourite from days out on the beach, the Bakewell tarts a longstanding battle fought and often lost at the supermarket bakery. Other dishes she does not know. The Doctor has picked up a bottle of what appears to be champagne, the proper sort rather than the cheap cava she normally picks up for birthdays and Christmas. He pops the cork amusingly inexpertly, hastily pouring two large glasses before he spills the bubbles.  

“Cheers,” she says, clinking her glass against his before taking her first sip. “Is this… your memory?” she says, indicating the sparkling liquid.  

“I suppose,” he says, and she marvels at the curious intimacy of this; of tasting something for the first time through someone else’s tongue. He points to some of the unrecognisable dishes on the table. “That’s karmine pudding from…” He swallows a lump in his throat and tries again. “From home; it should taste kind of fruity.”

“What’s _that_?” she asks, pointing to a bowl of unidentifiable oblongs drowned in yellowish gloop. “Looks like custard.”

He coughs, and at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “It _is_ custard. With, uh, with fish fingers.”

“I’m not even going to _ask_.” She takes another sip of champagne.

* * *

There are pearls at the bottom of this mountain lake, he tells her. She swims out to the middle after they finish eating, treading water and trying to see the bottom. She is surprised when he shyly pulls off his own tee shirt and wades out to join her; trying to keep her eyes on the corrie floor rather than his pale body, distorted by the lapping water.

“Go on then,” she says, and he dives beneath her feet, moving with surprising ease through the deep water. He is down so long she dips her own head under the water and takes a few tentative strokes, only to see him rising fast, something clutched in his fist.

They break the surface together and he opens his hand proudly to reveal something the size and shape of a large pearl, but brilliant emerald in colour. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

“It might be a little deep for you,” he says, doubtfully, always a red rag to her bull. She dives again, kicking fiercely, pulling as hard as she can with her arms to try and make bottom. Her lungs are burning but she ploughs on, refusing to accept his assessment. Her heart thumps painfully in her chest; she can see the clams on the bed of the lake now. They look close enough to almost touch, but she knows it’s just an illusion of refraction, and that he is bloody right. Her human lungs lack the capacity to make it all the way to the pearl beds.

She twists, and finds he is right above her, catching hold of her shoulders as she rises. For a moment she thinks he has come to help, to bring her back up to the surface. She pushes angrily back against him, refusing his aid. He holds up his hand, _stop_! and she is motionless in the water, heart frenetic, wondering what the hell he is playing at. His fingers come to rest behind her ear, pulling her face towards his with surprising tenderness. She realises his intent at last and breathes out a stream of bubbles.

His lips meet hers; not a lover’s kiss, but the breath of life: oxygen from his lungs to hers. She fills her chest, frantic heart calming, and he releases her to complete her dive. She finds a blue sapphire pearl and returns to the surface triumphant, prize in hand.

He has sculled back a little way, lying on his back in the water and looking up to the pinking sky at sunset. She swims over and he bobs upright, just tall enough to put his feet on the rocks. She is forced to tread water, a little awkwardly with only one hand, as she shows him her pearl. “Thank you,” she says, “I take it when we leave…?”

“It will stay here,” he confirms.

 _Could we do this for real?_ she wants to ask, but she knows the answer already from the growl in his voice. This place, wherever it is, is now nothing more than his memory. He offers her a hand, a point of contact so she can stay suspended in the warm water, and watch the lake fill with the gold and rose colours of the sunset overhead.

“Today’s been amazing,” she says after a while.

“For me as well,” he admits. She takes his other hand to better distribute her floating weight, turning her face to the sky, where the stars are starting to emerge. Some trick of physics, of fluid motion, seems to drift her closer to him. At some point she realises she is no longer looking at the sunset but at his upturned face. He glances down at her, blinking in surprise to find himself the focus of her gaze. His face is suddenly far, _far_ too close to hers.

He kisses her. She twitches with shock as his lips touch hers, the movement closing the distance between them. Her dangling legs tangle with his, planted on the lake bed. He tastes of jelly babies and almonds, his tongue resisting hers with all the ferocity he normally reserves for their argumentative spats. His grip shifts; holding her tight against him as she wraps her arms around his neck. She isn’t sure how long they remain entwined like this; it feels like an eternity, although perhaps it is only minutes. At some point she realises she is no longer floating, her feet are once again on the floor. She breaks the kiss to find they are standing in the gun-metal grey room, dressed in dry jump suits. The taste of jelly babies has faded to an almost medicinal chalk in her mouth; the last crumbs of her meal pill.

“Time to go,” he says simply. 


End file.
